I had determined the beach ran generally north and south. The second night I was there, I drew an arrow pointing to the setting sun. The next morning I drew a line perpendicular to this line and noted that the ocean paralleled it.
I didn’t get the idea for doing this out of a movie or a military manual. It is a simple idea, but like most simple ideas or inventions they are only obvious after somebody else thinks of them. In this case the pioneers wrote about it. Their course was west, but then without a compass what was west in the morning when they started out. They solved the problem by pointing the lead wagon tongue at the setting sun. Next morning they were on their way.
The point where I first observed the sun was almost directly east of the ocean. That means this creek if there is one somewhere down the beach, is the hypotenuse of a right triangle if the beach becomes the adjacent side. It seems to me it has to be or I couldn’t have seen the sun’s reflection from where I was standing at that time of the morning.
But I had been down the beach before, turned around and came back. So what’s different this time? This time, I sat down under an overhanging palm, took a drink of water and laid the problem out in the damp sand. But then I surprised myself. What I thought was southwest was really south-southwest. A simple computation on my sand blackboard, using Pythagoras’ Theorem, now showed the adjacent side or the base of the triangle to be longer than the opposite side, which was the distance I had walked from the ocean to the point where I had seen the light. This means in plain English that I have to walk about another mile down the beach.
If any of this has any basis in fact, and it’s not just another mind game, then, theta, the acute angle is where the mouth of a stream or this path will intersect the beach. I was starting to get excited. I was sure there was a creek or a path ahead of me, and I was equally sure it was going to lead to this light and my enemy who put it there.
There’s something else about those crabs I saw. I have seen them before, near Biloxi on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. Down there they are first cousin to a crawdad. They run around like crazy but at night they always go back to their nest, which invariably is near their major source of food. And when native islanders go crawdad hunting around here, they look for them in a stream. But if crawdads live in this fictitious stream of mine, they have a long way to travel. But they do go fast. If they took off in a straight line and kept going without stopping, they might be there in 30 minutes or so.
I estimated I had been walking about this same length of time when I observed something very peculiar off to my left in the jungle. Not the mouth of a stream as I had calculated, but something even more peculiar. To tell the truth, I never expected to see any path or creek materialize. It was mostly based on hope, as much as anything else.
At first I couldn’t figure it out. For some reason the tops of the palm trees were missing, like a cannon shell from a heavy gun had taken out a long wide swath.
I finally stopped to rest and to take another drink of water in an area where the trees appeared to be only half grown. When I stood up, somewhat rested, I plodded on another hundred yards and then stopped in a clearing, flabbergasted at what I was looking at.
There was a long furrow dug about a foot deep before the shell had exploded. There were trees and debris strewn everywhere. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was but I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a shell. It was an airplane that had crash-landed.
But why not in the ocean the way I did? Why had he tried landing to the east, taking a chance on running out of lagoon and having to ditch the way he did? It never occurred to me for a minute that a Jap was responsible for him crashing in the trees.
I knew what it was before I got within another twenty-five yards. It was a navy carrier based F-4F Wildcat.
I could tell by the way the props were bent back and curled at the ends that the engine was under power when it hit. And Jap fighters seldom shot at us because they seldom got the chance–we wouldn’t dogfight with them.
We had learned early on that none of our fighters, army or navy, could turn with them.
General Claire Chennault, who headed up the American Volunteers, known as the Flying Tigers in China, had discovered the hard way that his P-40 fighters could not turn with either of the two Jap fighters, code named Oscar and Zero. When they first tried it the Jap was instantly on their tails. They were also lighter and faster than anything we had. But they had no armament and no self-sealing fuel tanks, and they lacked the firepower of our first line fighters.
Chennault, ever the innovator and tactician, figured out the few advantages the P-40 had and the disadvantages the Jap aircraft had. Then he simply told his people to gain altitude and dive on them and then pull-up and do it again. That was it. That was his complete book of tactical doctrine that enabled him to overcome the apparent advantage of the Japanese.
He passed on this valuable information to Washington, who managed to ignore it until after Pearl Harbor. Eventually it became tactical doctrine in both services for all aircraft but the P-39 over at Henderson field. There they were not allowed to engage either of these two fighters in combat of any kind.
The Wildcat was not one of our newest or one of our best. But it was one of our more deadly, in spite of its age. Using Chennault’s technique, it always attacked from a higher altitude. If the pilot missed he kept going at full throttle, pulling away if the Jap started to dive with him.
So why was this airplane here? What was it doing so far from its carrier that should have been over by Guadalcanal? If he had not lost his engine, why had he crashed landed in the trees?
I climbed upon the left wing, forgetting the current puzzle for a few minutes. The aircraft was a total loss but the canopy was closed and the cockpit was intact, further information arguing for an aircraft that was under power when it hit. But why didn’t it explode from the force of the impact if it was at full speed? Because it was built for hard carrier landings, and because the profusion of vines and foliage acted like hundreds of small arresting cables, catching it by the wings, fuselage and tail assembly.
Was this good? No, not really. It never came to an abrupt halt, as it would have had it gone straight in or had it hit an obstacle or the water. It had stopped just hard enough to kill the pilot but probably not instantly.
I walked around the fuselage, checking for bullet or cannon holes and found none. All the time I was glancing at him hanging in his harness. I was dreading having to open the canopy and retrieving his identification tags. I knew I was going to have to do it but I didn’t want to.
Chapter 5
I stayed on the beach last night. I had some water and I ate the fish I didn’t eat for lunch. The weather was warm and there was no sign of rain. The sand is the same here as it is back at my camp, so I thought I might as well stay. The truth is, I didn’t want to open the cockpit then, and I didn’t want to walk back in the morning thinking about having to do it. And the longer I procrastinated, the more difficult it would become.
The navy wears their tags around their neck like a necklace the same as we do. All I have to do is reach in, take hold and give it a yank and, hopefully, it will break loose. But I am even hesitant to do that. Shouldn’t I look for his wallet to send home to his wife or mother? Pretty cold blooded of me to just take the tags and turn them in. Yet, no matter how much I reasoned with myself, in the end that’s all I was going to do. Just open the canopy quick, take the tags and be gone.
I used to have a little game I played as a boy and I guess I never stopped. When I knew I was going to do something I didn’t want to do, I would count to three and say: “go.” It started with jumping into this cold river in the spring.
We used to challenge each other to see who would be first. But unless you had something going for you, like this game of mine, you might stand on the bank for half an hour without going in. You knew you were going to go, so you might as well have your friends spread the word around the neighborhood that you were first instead of l
ast. This went for cold swimming pools, too; especially on Monday morning right after the water had been changed. Also jumping off moving freight trains, high dives and anything you knew you were going to do but were hesitating. After you had built up a number of goes without missing, you went on the count of three because you didn’t want to spoil your record.
I knew when I climbed on the wing that as soon as I figured out how to open the canopy, I was going to count to three and then do it. I wasn’t going to hesitate and then have to start the count over again, not after I had been storing them up for so many years.
I walked around for the longest while, though. I even went fishing. Stalling is what I was doing. Going on three would only work when you were actually on the wing and had your hand on the canopy–it was my game and I made the rules.
I offered myself a reward as an incentive. But the only thing I had was a drink of water; of course there was always a nap. That’s it as soon as I have the tags, I will take another swim and then take a nap before going back to camp.
Something has been bothering me, though, and I started to think about it again as I walked toward the airplane–the wreckage was so buried in the foliage that the sun could not have reflected off of anything. It was almost as if it had been hidden in a cave by a giant hand. And inside the cave it was dark; a dark green where nothing reflected sunlight.
Back on the beach, I sat thinking. I had taken the tags and I had taken something else. I had only planned to open the canopy and take the tags but at the last second, I changed my mind. I took a quick look behind the seat for a personal memento of some kind to send his mother.
That’s when I first saw it; one of the most beautiful hand tooled briefcases I had ever seen. I carried it back to the beach and set it down in the shade, and then just sat there in the sand and stared at it.
Later on, I removed his tags from their rubber mountings for cleaning. I had laid them in the sand and had managed to get a few grains between the aluminum tags and the mounting grommets.
Good idea this rubber backing or grommet. Too bad the idea hadn’t caught on in the army. Its purpose was to keep them from jingling like wind chimes.
In the army when you walked to the shower or when you were getting ready for bed, anytime you took off your undershirt or anytime somebody was inconsiderate enough to wear them outside his undershirt with his shirt off they would tinkle. And then there were those accursed wooden shower clogs that clomped on wooden barracks floors.
They sold them in the Post Exchange. I guess most everybody bought a pair but me. They were supposed to prevent athlete’s foot. But there was little danger, since we periodically scrubbed our floors with lye, mixed with soap and water, and then we walked through a footbath heavily laced with some kind of chemical guaranteed to kill the most belligerent of bugs just before entering the shower.
There was this twice-daily symphony, night and morning, when the blending of chimes and clogging used to drive me crazy. I never got used to it. It woke me up when I was trying to take a nap. Or worse yet, it woke me up when I went back to sleep after reville.
I was too young to shave, so I had time for an extra few minutes of needed sleep. I read someplace where they believe teen-age boys need more sleep than adults. Well, I was still in my teens and I can attest to the truth of that.
The parade of chimers and cloggers acted as a kind of snooze alarm as they returned from their morning ablution, so I guess I should have been grateful. But getting up immediately when I heard them coming back took a certain discipline, helped out by the old one two three count.
His hand tooled brief case was being used as a map case. The navy does most of their flying over water, so each pilot carries a small plotting board fastened to his leg, along with a strip map and other navigation paraphernalia. They have so much to tote around that I guess they are issued a briefcase. But although they have a reputation for going first class, none of them were ever issued one like this.
It was the first time I saw a navy strip map and it struck me that I could have used one on my first cross-country. I had almost completed the first leg, when I was jumped by a flight of Lightening’s. I watched them form in echelon to practice on me as the enemy. I pulled up sharply as their leader broke for the attack. I lost my unfolded map that was sitting on my lap when the airplane went over on its back–it went under my seat. Working its way to the bottom of the fuselage it was never seen again by me. Wrestling with it on my lap was like trying to read the front page of the Times, while hanging on a strap in a New York subway.
I ended up getting temporarily lost, burning a lot of gas trying to retrieve it by alternately diving and climbing and rolling on my back, and I almost didn’t get back to my base.
I was hesitant to check its contents. Of course I was curious to see if it contained other things, including a complete chart. The one he had strapped to his leg was a strip chart that did not show the entire South Pacific. Then, too, it would be nice to discover where he lived without having to go through the navy and then run the risk of having my request rejected–that is if I was still planning on personally returning it to his mother.
Another thing about briefcases like this one, they often contained personal items. They’re like women’s purses, what’s inside is nobody else’s business. You just don’t go nosing around either one–it just isn’t done.
I continued to sit there for the longest time, studying the workmanship, and marveling at the skill of the artist. Of particular interest was a large set of navy wings embossed on the back. They were choice; their intricate design stood out as being a work of superior quality. It came to me that the owner might be something of a connoisseur of valuable artwork. Maybe somebody had given it to him as a gift. Whoever it was must have a lot of money, because it cost a lot of money, and it was meant to last more than one lifetime.
I felt an immediate kinship with him that surprised me, sensing he had taste in other things as well: his clothes; his automobile; his friends, and maybe in everything he did. I knew he had been a man of breeding. Don’t ask how I knew all this from just looking at a leather briefcase, but I did.
And something else: I never thought of myself as being an elitist. But now for the first time, I realized how important good taste was to a well-ordered life. And I don’t care. There is nothing wrong with wanting the finer things in life–a beautiful wife, and a nice home….
This set me off on another of my mind excursions: When did I ever have an ugly no-class girl friend? When did I ever read a trashy novel or enjoy a movie that was without a mind-challenging plot? When did I ever own a wreck of an automobile? When did I ever pal around with one of the school’s bums or say hello to one for that matter? But why have I always felt at home with working people with class, regardless of nationality or religion? I suppose this qualifies me as something of an elitist if not as an out and out snob.
I can’t explain it, but I think this naval officer and I have a lot in common. And there is no doubt we would have been close friends. Anyway, I felt strongly enough about it that I took an oath on the spot: I swore I would do everything I could to see that he was returned to his family. I don’t know why I did this or why I should have even cared. The navy has a system to insure such things are taken care of and I’m sure they don’t need my help; yet I felt the need to make certain that nothing was overlooked.
********
The next day found me back where I first saw the light. I wasn’t looking for it; I had come to the obvious conclusion that a piece of metal had broken off when the airplane went in, and was now lying out there somewhere out of sight. There were no Japs involved and that was the most important thing.
But as I said before, I’m having second thoughts about where the light is coming from. It might not be reflecting off the navy fighter, after all. I haven’t been thinking too much about it, though, and I’m reluctant to start again.
I came here to see if it might be possible to catch or spear a pig. I had be
en thinking some more about a luau. Fish were good but I was getting tired of them, maybe I was just getting tired of eating them raw. Some good hot bisque might be a welcome change. There were plenty of crabs around but not for me, not eaten uncooked anyway.
Assuming I had some fire, how would I cook them? I could do it, I suppose, with a piece of engine cowling and seawater. I could remove a section with my dzus. I see no reason why they wouldn’t be standard among airplane manufacturers. But I really didn’t care to go back to the navy plane and I’m not sure the inline engine cowl on my airplane will work. Anyway, I haven’t checked on her for a few days and I’m not sure she is still out there.
There is this thing about the crash site. I don’t care to dwell on it but there just is. I don’t know how to put it other than to say it gave me a strange feeling being near it the other day. I have tried to ignore it but there definitely is something about it that is out of the ordinary. Funny, the briefcase doesn’t make me feel the same way. If anything it’s the opposite of this feeling of foreboding and depression.
I haven’t been having any screwy dreams or weird premonitions or anything like that. I’m not on my way to becoming like Ben Gunn. I don’t see the airplane as being exactly haunted but then I don’t really know what haunted is.
I read someplace where if you are sleep deprived or have been eating the wrong foods over time, certain things happen to your body and you get certain feelings or even have hallucinations. But then none of this pertains to me. I have been sleeping well–this warm sand agrees with me. And although I haven’t had any carbohydrates for a couple of months it hasn’t been long enough to affect me. Maybe it’s being out here alone. That’s it, being alone. Look at Ben Gunn, something caused his problem and it must have been because he was alone for so long a time.
Somewhere West of Fiji Page 5
